Sunday, October 2:
R. had a comparatively quiet night; he takes his bath and tells me gaily that my pronouncements concerning his article have given him complete confidence in it. He reads Trois ans en Asie and works; writes a few lines to Marianne Brandt - a variant on “fühlst du im Herzen nur andrer Schmerz(en)” to facilitate the breathing.
Our lunch is harmonious; R. talks a lot about the massage he intends to have. My father is also somewhat better, but we do not venture on a walk. In the evening R. studies the atlas, the route to Corfu! He then goes to work, but complains of having a cold.
The evening part whist, part conversation with Wolz., to whom he demonstrates his error with regard to Parsifal. When he talks jokingly to and about me and I tell him he is being naughty, he says, “If I were to try to do you justice, I should go mad!” And this morning, when we greet each other, he keeps on gulping, telling me it is to make sure that no kiss escapes into the air!
At lunch he told the children about the comical dream he had because of falling asleep with a finger in his nose; he says it showed him a cave with stalactites, then a milk pond, and finally the pulpy brain substance! When my father expresses his dislike of present-day Goethe literature, R. says humorously, “Goethe has altogether gone down in my estimation for having so little money; I thought he had 100,000 thalers, but now I see that he, too, wrote for money!”